


The God Who Loved Me

by thrxnduils



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hate to Love, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-01-26 11:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrxnduils/pseuds/thrxnduils
Summary: 'The nine realms would burn to to ash and blood if you could never be mine.'Mortal men could never love you the way he could. ////Loki enters Midgard with violent and sadistic plans, but meets a you, a Midgardian PhD student, at a museum show on Norse mythology.Rated Mature for later explicit chapters.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel) & Reader, Loki (Marvel)/Reader, Tom Hiddleston/Loki/Reader
Comments: 52
Kudos: 370





	1. Chapter 1

You rustle on your favourite green jacket, pulling the sleeves past your fingertips. It’s November, and New York is _cold._You love the cold, though. You prefer the soothing sound of the rain to the blistering heat of the summer. You prefer the crackling August leaves over the cherry blooms of spring.

Your studies brought you to New York. Your PhD and your ongoing thesis in History and Historical Studies of the Ancient Norse World, to be specific. It’s something you’ve always loved, and when the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City put out an advert for a very specific Nordic History expo, you knew you had to be there.

You walk up the famous steps, and find your way through the doors to a world long gone. The museum is full and bustling, as the guides hand out pamphlets and shout over the throng of the crowd.

“_The Nine Worlds”_the pamphlet says. You look up over the crowd and for a moment, catch the eye of a very tall man, immaculately dressed. He wears a jet black suit that seems tailored just for him, with raven-black hair falling immaculately to his shoulders. You know it’s rude to stare but his eyes keep you in place – is it rude if _he’s staring back?_Green eyes, green as jade, green as sin against the black of his suit and his hair. You’re sure you’ve never seen anyone look quite like that – but in an instant, he turns and moves lithely away through the crowd with a graceful step, and you feel yourself let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

_New York is really weird…_

You get to the show room and the crowd filters in around you. The host of the show makes her way to the front – and she’s what you expect someone versed in Nordic history to look like. She’s tall, very blonde, and her eyes are very blue. She looks expensive.. _European._She introduces herself as Dr. Helska Bonde, and she begins her speech to the crowd.

‘The Nine Worlds as you see on your pamphlet,’ she starts, ‘are the beginning of our journey. We begin with Yggdrasil, the tree which connects the nine wo-’

‘Forgive me, Dr. Bonde,’ calls out a voice from the back of the room. You turn around and you see him again – the same tall man who you made eye contact with in the lobby. In the lighting of the room, his cheekbones stand out, and you note that he stands at least a foot taller than the tallest man there. His voice is.. oddly outstanding, you think. Manly, deep, and almost malevolent. There’s an accent somewhere in there that you’ve never heard before.

‘If you intend to speak of the beginning any journeys,’ he continued, ‘should you not recall the lands of Muspell and Niflheim?’

Dr. Bonde looked at the man curiously, and you see it in her face that she is too entranced by his appearance to be realize that his words are meant to offend. She stutters and waves his contribution aside, continuing her lecture with less verve than before.

At the end of the session, your head is swimming with knowledge of the ancient world. Of Sól, the goddess of the sun, and Máni, the god of the moon. Of the femininity of the night as Nótt, and the masculinity of the day as Dagr. The crowd shuffles out around you but you linger behind, moving slowly from painting to painting, carving to carving, feeling a world of a thousand years past as it swims before you in gold and wood and parchment and paper.

You pause before a painting of a woman, who sits beneath the sea. Her eyes focus on the viewer, and her beauty is as fierce as you have ever seen. She holds a net in her hands and above the lull of the waves is a seafarer, looking fearfully into the depths.

‘Rán,’ comes the voice behind you. You look over your shoulder and he stands over you, seemingly also entranced by the painting. He doesn’t look at you. His green eyes are on the beautiful woman with the net. ‘Rán,’ he repeats. ‘The goddess of the sea.’

‘Is she waiting for the seafarer?’ you ask, turning back to the painting.

‘Waiting,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Drowned men do not die painful deaths. Rán catches them as they fall, and then they belong to the sea.’

You look up at him, curious. He speaks as if this isn’t mythology or a museum. He looks at the painting with a fervor of a friend, you think. He has to be from Norway. He has to know about these things better than Dr. Bonde ever could.

‘I always believed drowning was the most painful way to go,’ you say.

He looks at you, and you can’t believe how deep his eyes go. They pierce like emeralds, shining above those impossibly high cheekbones, and a proud, haughty mouth.

‘The sea takes the bravest,’ he answers you. You still can’t place the accent. ‘The sea is deep enough to bury the courageous. Rán will not see any less.’

He gives you a funny look. But you don’t drop your gaze. You feel that he’s almost _challenging_you.

‘Who are you?’ you ask, suddenly. The words come out of you before you can stop yourself, but it was a question that burnt you since you saw him. ‘Are you a professor? A curator?’

He laughs. ‘Little mortal. Would you believe me if I told you?’


	2. 2

Little mortal.

_Little mortal._

The words replay over and over in your head, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the emerald that seems as deep as the sea. If it was someone else – anyone else – you would choke back a laugh, and walk away. But you see it in his face that he isn’t joking- there’s a malice and a darkness behind each word, and those green eyes show no warmth.

‘Try me,’ you offer in response. The words come out before you can even think them through, and he laughs – a laugh as mirthless as his words.

‘Such a brave girl,’ he responds, in that accent you can’t place. ‘Tell me, what are you doing here today?’

Your palms are sweating, and you feel cold all over. Whoever this man is, he makes you feel an unease you’ve never felt before. But your feet stay planted to the ground, and you’re pretty sure he’s almost as surprised as you are that you’re still there.

‘I – I’m doing my PhD,’ you respond. Talking about your work and your studies always seems to anchor you. When you speak again, the words come out more confidently. ‘My thesis is based on Old Norse mythology. I thought it’d be a good idea to come here and listen to what they had to say.’

His brows furrow, he seems surprised. ‘And why would you opt to pursue that particular course of study?’

You shrug. ‘Because I’m fascinated by it,’ you reply. ‘How could anyone not be? The birth of time and an ocean churning in the cosmos – it’s beyond anything I’ve ever read or heard of before. I spent all my college and post-grad years trying to learn as much about it as I could.’

You turn a little red, realizing that you may have overshared with this curious, beautiful stranger. But you swear his eyes soften – even a little, as he looks you over again.

‘I happen to know a great deal about that specific topic,’ he says, and his tone has a light edge to it now.

‘I can tell,’ you reply – a little too fast. His eyes go dark again.

‘Why do you say that?’

You take a deep breath, and shrug. ‘It’s the way you looked at the painting. The way you corrected Dr. Bonde. You seem.. pretty connected to all this, I suppose.’

‘What exactly is your thesis based on?’ he asks, and you feel like it’s a genuine question.

‘The connection between our plane of existence and the gods,’ you reply. ‘That’s why today was pretty helpful. The personification of the sun, and the moon. The personification of the sea. That sort of thing.’

‘Maybe I can help you,’ he offers, with a grin. The grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but his face has never been more stunning, you think. ‘I had other plans for New York, but I’m sure they can stay on hold for a short time.’

‘How do you know so much about these things?’ you ask. Your words are wary, and your tone is suspicious. You don’t doubt he knows. You know that he does. But something about him that you can’t figure out has you stressing, you can’t lie.

‘I was born on Jotunheim,’ he says, matter of factly. ‘A land of ice and darkness. And I have spent eons in the Nine Realms, albeit not very much time here, on Midgard.’ His emerald eyes seem to glow as he continues. ‘My name is Loki, and the thrones of both Jotunheim and Asgard are mine by right. You say I seem connected to this painting. I have known Rán all her life. I have sent my own men to sea to be drowned for her to receive them.'

He looks around the room, and the contempt on his face in thinly veiled. 'This is a laughable farce, that you Midgardians put on here. With your _lecturers_, and _professors_.. and _experts._ The gall of you all – to think you know anywhere near what we have commanded and ruled for thousands of years. The vanity.. astounds even.. me.’

Your heart races, and your breath hitches in your throat. It seems like a joke – only neither of you are laughing.

‘I came to Midgard to destroy this city,’ he continues, his voice almost bored. ‘This city of ravenous self worship, and bright lights. I have never been in the business of showing mercy – I leave such a _virtue_for those weaker than myself. But I suppose I can do you a kindness before that. Provided you are out of this city when I find myself ready to do what I came to do. Otherwise it would all be for nothing, I assume.’

He laughs, and this time it meets his eyes. A cold laugh. Fearsome. And you know he has meant every word.

He looks at you, and you swear you see a flash of red in the green.

‘What say you?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This fanfic is the result of a dream I had and some thoughts that I can't seem to get out of my head. I know these prologuing chapters are a bit brief, but I can't wait to get into the depths of it. Thanks to everyone who's left kudos so far. I really appreciate it, and hope that you stick with this story as it comes :) x


	3. Chapter 3

You’re lost.

Lost in pools of gemstone green.

_These things don’t happen,_you tell yourself. _This isn’t real._

His voice yanks you out of your reverie.

‘I’m not particularly interested in being kept waiting longer than I feel necessary,’ he says. You resent him for the edge of sarcastic boredom in his voice. You feel as though the entirety of the world as you know it has been shredded into bits by the presence of an Old God, and for him, everything stands as still as it always has.

‘New York isn’t as bad as you say it is,’ you manage.

‘Did you not hear me, silly girl?’ His eyes roll. ‘I said I would be willing to put my plans on _hold_.. think about it as you prolonging damage to your precious world. Maybe then you can consider yourself to be as important as Midgardians generally contemplate themselves to be.’

Your blood runs cold as you realize what he’s doing. _It’s a game_, you realize. He’s playing you. And playing _with _you. He’s bartering you for the safety of the entire city. Suddenly, the weight of it all drops on you like a hundred hot bricks. You feel a combination of dread and unease building in the pit of your stomach, and up your throat, like bile.

‘I may rescind my offer. My interest is drastically lessening, the more you think about it,’ he drawls.

‘I’d like you to help me,’ you say. Your voice comes out stronger than you anticipate, and he cocks his head to one side interestedly.

‘Good girl,’ he smiles – one of those icy smiles that betray no happiness. ‘There is a small bookmonger not far from here, called _Gammel Verden._If you come by tomorrow at dusk, it will be worth your while.’

You reach for your phone to type in the words – when you look back up, he’s gone.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a heady rush. You almost collapse onto the floor of the apartment you’ve rented – grabbing the kitchen counter to keep steady.

_Did today actually happen?_

You take a shower, and the familiar scent of your shampoo soothes you, momentarily – at least. After hopping out and towel drying your hair, you settle down with your laptop, and type one word into your search bar.

_LOKI._

Thousands of links pop up at the click of your finger, but you gravitate toward the image search. You scroll, and scroll – and find nothing reminiscent of the being you had met today. The images all show a demon-esque male figure clad in green and black, with a horned helmet jutting far out in front of his face. The man you’d met today was more breathtakingly beautiful than any man you’d ever seen, and more fearsome than any man you’d ever seen. The fearsomeness wasn’t his size, or his build. It was the way he held himself, tall, strong, and lithe. It was the way his eyes went dark, and the hungry grins that spread across his face without warning. You had never felt fear the way you did when he spoke to you. And you knew he knew it.

For a moment, you felt very small. You knew he was right. All of the artists who had painted these depictions over the years had done a shoddy job at capturing the real Loki. Artists who believed that they knew better. Sometimes, in the midst of your train of thought - the entire idea seemed too ridiculous to entertain – and you attempted to shake it out of your head. But you remembered the way he’d spoken. The aura that came off of him. The depth of his gaze that could have never been the gaze of a man. And you knew. You knew he was one of the Old Gods walking the earth.

And when you fall into a fitful sleep, you dream of green eyes and gold horns, and an accent that you can’t quite place.

* * *

Dusk arrives too early the following day. You throw on your favourite black scarf and jacket to battle the November cold, and make your way to the bookshop that Loki had told you about. All night you had hoped that you’d wake up and it would have all been a dream. But here you were, walking with jelly-knees, to a shop you had never heard of before.

_Bookmonger_, he’d called it. Definitely ancient, that one..

The shop itself is tucked away in a dim corner on the side of the street. The sign is wobbly and strange, but as you open the door, a comforting glow greets you, and the smell of old books envelopes you. You feel calm, then. Books have always been your solace and your happiness. There’s no one at the front desk, so you walk further into the shop. There are rows of shelves, jam packed with books of all shapes and sizes, with no immediately noticeable order.

You reach out and pull the first one that gets your attention – a thick, leather-bound book that seems like it belongs in a _Lord of the Rings_instalment. The name is written in bold gold lettering, in a language you don’t understand, and can’t translate.

‘Vígvöllr,’ comes a voice behind you, much too close for you to feel safe. You yelp, startled, sllamming the book shut. You whip around, and he stands close to you, albeit much taller than you.

‘It means “battlefield”, little one,’ he grins, seemingly amused at your terror.

You take a long step to the left, getting out of the confined space between him and the bookshelf.

‘It is written in Old Norse,’ he continues. ‘You would not understand.’

‘I’m here,’ you say, defiantly. ‘Like you asked.’

‘Like I asked,’ he repeats, with an edge of malevolence in his voice. ‘Good girl, so _willing.._’

‘You promised to tell me what you know,’ you continue, ignoring him.

‘What I know, you would never understand,’ he chuckles. ‘I was more so entertaining the notion of telling you what _you_want to know.. as limited as that may be.’

He pulls another book off the shelf, and looks thoughtfully at it. ‘This is the only place in this godforsaken city that I have seen Old Norse books. It’s a good place to be for what you search for, little one.’

You hate how funny your stomach feels when he calls you “little one”.

‘I’m not little,’ you mutter.

Without warning, he’s in front of you again, with one arm on either side of you. Your back presses into the wall, and he’s so close to you – you can see the black inside of the green of his eyes. You can _smell_him. He smells like twilight and rainy evenings and spearmint, and something so inherently masculine that you can’t even describe it. Your heart races, and the words die in your throat.

‘Oh but you are _so_little,’ he murmurs, his voice dripping with vice. ‘So little I won’t even have to try if I wanted to hurt you. So soft, so little.. so warm. And you smell so agreeable, too.’

Your heart might burst, but you use every ounce of your strength to keep your eyes on his. You begin to protest, but one of his hands releases the shelf at your side, and comes up to grip your chin between his thumb and his forefinger.

‘Be careful, little mortal,’ he chides, softly. His voice is almost sensual, and you scream at yourself for the strange heat pooling in your belly. ‘If you get too out of line, I won’t hesitate.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Just a trigger warning before you get into the chapter - the last scene may contain content which has the potential to be a bit triggering or disturbing to people who have experienced assault or the fear of assault. You can skip the end if it's something you're uncomfortable with reading. (Doesn't have anything to do with the actual Loki/Reader arc).
> 
> Thank you for the feedback though. I appreciate it, and hope you'll continue to read along with me. :)

Every evening, you make the trip to the little bookshop hidden against the wall. And every evening, he’s there – waiting to tell you something new, that he kept from you the day before. He tells you about the goddess of the sun, and the god of the moon. He tells you about the festivals in their honour, and the harkening of the summer solstice. He tells you about their rituals, he tells you about their youth. You are always transfixed by his words – most times, you can’t believe what’s happening. Sometimes it’s so beautiful, you feel that your heart might burst. He has lived his entire life on a plane so much higher than you could ever imagine. And here you sit every day, face to face with an Old God. You spend the days afraid that it has all been a dream.

The bookshop itself is always quiet. You never see anyone at the front desk – it remains dusty, dimly lit, and empty.

‘How come there’s never anyone here?’ you ask, one evening. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor between the shelves, and he stands – away from you – examining a heavy tome.

‘Why is it necessary?’ he asks, never looking up.

You shrug, pulling your jacket tighter around you. ‘A bookshop seems like it would have an owner. What happens if customers come in?’

Loki looks over at you, and you see the almost human expression of him forcing back a smile. Almost instinctively, you bite back one as well.

‘That is because it is not made for customers,’ he says. ‘We have been here for days, and no one has come in. Can you guess why that is?’

You shake your head. ‘No, but I assume you can’t wait to tell me.’

He closes the book, and in a moment that surprises you, he makes his way to the aisle between the shelves, and seats himself directly opposite to you. If nothing else, you’re dreadfully objective – and the green of his eyes against the alabaster of his skin contrasts pleasantly against the dark of his hair, and his clothes. He’s in his usual black attire – a black shirt, and black pants that fit him too well to be natural.

Are there tailors on Asgard?

He meets your eyes, and your stomach feels funny.

‘There’s no one here, because here isn’t for them,’ he says. His voice isn’t unkind, you note. He continues. ‘This is the only place in this city that the Nine Realms can come to, without using the Bifrost. These books, they keep a sort of magic in them. They keep our Old Language, and our Old Spirits. We can come and go as we please, in here. Because our history remains, so does our power.’

You look at him, lost in his recollection. ‘Tell me about Freya,’ you say, softly.

His eyes narrow, and he tenses. ‘Freya?’

‘You’ve told me about so many others. I want to know about Freya.’

Loki rises to his feet, and almost unbidden, you rise with him. He seems lost in thought, and the green eyes that are often so sharp, seem cloudy, and distant.

‘The goddess of love,’ he murmurs. ‘Of war. Of death. Of desire.’

‘How can someone be all of that?’ you ask. ‘I’m being totally respectful here, but just for argument’s sake. Like the ancient Greeks – they separated love from war. There was Aphrodite, and then there was Athena. One being can’t be both.’

He turns to face you, and you see an expression unfamiliar to you contort his features. He seems thoughtful, but he moves closer to you.

‘Your own history betrays that what you allege isn’t true,’ he says. ‘How many wars have been fought in the name of love and desire? How many kings have led entire nations into battle for the hand of a woman?’

He moves even closer. Instinctively, you step back – and yelp as the back of your legs hit the front desk. You feel trapped – between the desk and the ruthless deity advancing on you.

‘Desire and war go hand in hand,’ he purrs, closer to you than he has ever been. His scent fills your nostrils, and you are acutely aware of the silence in the room, save for your breathing – and his.

He’s so close.

His nose touches yours, and you feel electricity course through you. The strange feeling in your stomach threatens to burst – and you close your eyes, willing yourself to stay on your feet. You hate him – you hate his smugness – you hate his arrogance – you hate his _cruelty – _

‘Open your eyes,’ he says, softly. Commandingly.

You open them.

‘So good,’ he continues, ‘so very good.’ There is a mild edge to his voice now – a strange combination of playfulness, sarcasm, and darkness.

‘Do you get a kick out of this?’ you ask, trying your best to sound rude. ‘This whole – cornering thing.’

Your wisecrack doesn’t phase him. Instead, he grins, and in one fluid movement, pushes you gently so that you’re forced to sit on the edge of the desk. You feel lewd – he’s standing between your legs, with one hand on either side of your hips. You’re both fully clothed – but it feels so _vulgar_, you think_._

‘I don’t believe I’m doing anything you don’t want me to do,’ he says silkily, bending his head to yours. He’s much too close now.

Too close, you think.

Too close.

You can see the smirk on his lips, and the proximity almost makes you lightheaded.

You almost combust when his mouth touches the hollow beneath your ear. ‘Tell me to stop,’ he murmurs.

You choke on the words – they won’t come out. No matter how much you will them to. A strangled sigh is all you manage. Without thinking, your hands reach up to grab his upper arms for support, and his body stiffens at your touch. The feel of his arms stun you – he has always looked lithe and muscular, but to _feel_him, even through his shirt – he feels so strong, you think.

His lips press against your neck, and your throat, and your eyes close. It feels better than anything you can remember – and your grip on his arm tightens, as you will yourself to hold it together.

‘Open your eyes, little mortal,’ he chuckles, and you do. He smiles wickedly. ‘Obedient again. I could have a great deal of fun with you..’

You want him to kiss your throat again. You want the feel of him close to you again. You’ll do anything he says for that again – and you hate yourself for it. Suddenly, you’re glad you’re sitting. Your legs feel like jelly.

‘I’m not obedient,’ you grumble. ‘You just ask the right questions at the right time.’

That makes him laugh, and it’s the first truly human sound he’s made since you set eyes on him at the Met.

‘If I told you to submit yourself right here, would you do it, little one?’ he asks, his voice promptly soft and dangerous again.

‘I would not,’ you reply, truthfully.

‘But you know if I wanted to, I could just..’ - he reaches a hand up into your hair, and pulls back gently – ‘take you..?’

You see the ceiling with your head tilted back, and your heart races in your chest.

His mouth is at the base of your throat again, and his whispers melt into your skin.

‘Right here, little one. And you would savour every second of it.’

‘No,’ you say, from where you are. ‘Not yet.’

‘_Not yet _implies you will say yes, eventually,’ he teases, giving the side of your neck a sharp bite. You whimper unintentionally – and it comes out _much_more sensually than you hoped - squeezing his arm. When you look at him again, his eyes are dark, his pupils wide.

‘Do try your best not to make those sounds,’ he groans, and he sounds pained. ‘I may be a god, but don’t test my limits.’

‘Uh, _you _bit me,’ you snap back.

He withdraws from you, and a rush of cold air meets you where he had been. He turns his back, and walks curtly across to another shelf. ‘We can continue tomorrow. Have a good night.’

You feel almost offended, as you slide off the table.

‘Goodnight then,’ you reply – trying to keep your voice as smooth as possible. You move wordlessly to the door, and slip out, opening the Uber app on your phone to get a taxi home.

* * *

The Uber drops you off minutes from your apartment – you’re hungry, and decide to make a stop at a nearby food cart. Chicken sandwich in hand, you start the short walk to get home, when you hear a double catcall from your left.

This is what you like the least about New York. Your head snaps left, and your heart sinks as you see three men approaching you, laughing bawdily.

‘Pretty little thing like you on the road this late?’ one yells. He sounds drunk, you think. You quicken your pace – hating yourself for stopping for the sandwich. Hating the world that you should hate yourself for stopping for a sandwich.

The other two jog closer to you, hooting after you.

‘Miss? Slow down Miss! We could use the company, if you don’t mind.’

‘No thank you,’ you call politely. You’re almost half-running now, and they stay at your pace, albeit behind you.

Then one is directly at your side, and you freeze. He’s blonde, and his face is ugly and round. His smile is cold and malicious, and he grabs you by the arm.

You freeze.

‘Why you runnin’, pretty girl?’ he asks, feigning confusion. ‘You ought to hang with us – we could show you a good time.’

You feel bile rising in your throat and tears welling in your eyes. You are so strong – you always have been – and even this moment of paralyzing fear does not take away the strength you know you have.

You sink to your knees in anguish, tears of apprehension escaping unbidden.

A shriek.

A flash of green.

A flash of gold.

A flash of black.

An ugly, round, blonde face lying at your feet.

An Old God lifting you into his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

“I can walk,” you say.

He sets you on your feet, one large hand lingering at the small of your back. Steadying you.

You look up at him, and his green eyes anchor you to the ground again. Your heart still races and adrenaline is still coursing through your veins, but you don’t want to seem weak. You take a deep breath, and in the most even voice you can manage, you tell him that you live not far from here.

He’s still angry. You feel it radiating off of him. Hot. Dark. Dangerous. It comes off of him in waves. It feels almost visible. He nods tightly. “I will walk you home.”

You don’t protest.

He walks behind you, the short journey back to your little apartment two streets over. The sky is dark around you, and your hand shakes as you fumble with your key in the lock. He never takes his eyes off of you, and the soft squeak of your door swinging open cuts the silence like a knife.

‘Well,’ you say, suddenly sheepish. ‘We’re here.’

You turn on the hallway light, and the apartment is lit in a dim, cozy glow. He looks almost ridiculous, his massive frame in your little place. You lock the door behind him, and step into your living room.

The apartment is all you needed for your time in New York. It has a living room with a three-seater couch, a coffee table, and 48’ screen television, and little nooks in which you’ve stuffed almost every book you brought with you, plus every one you’ve bought since you’ve been here. The living room leads into a small kitchen, and a door separates it from your bedroom and your bathroom.

“Can you just wait here, for like, a second?”

He doesn’t nod. But he doesn’t say no.

You hurry into your bedroom, and sigh audibly at the piles of clothes on the ground. You’ve never been the neatest person getting ready – but the pile of jeans, discarded tops, and socks on the ground is mortifying, even by your standards.

The entire pile is almost jammed into your wardrobe when you see him at the door, eyeing you with a quiet sort of amusement. With a final heave, you get everything to fit in the wardrobe and you slam it shut, turning around to look at him.

“Sorry. Not accustomed to guests.”

He crosses the room in two long strides, closing the distance between you. You wonder if he can hear your heart in your chest.

“Are you all right?”

You sigh.

“It’s not that unusual, you know.”

“If I had not been there, do you know what could have happened to you?”

“Of course I know!”

Your voice comes out snappier than you expect. “I’m a girl! A woman! Me and every other woman in New York – hell – every other woman in the goddamned _world_goes through men wanting to do the worst - every single day.”

“Women are stronger than most people – even their own selves – will ever know,” he replies. “I am sorry that this is a reoccurring experience for you.”

You nod. As you stand there, looking at him, you become disconcertingly aware of the dirt and grime of the day and the evening.

“I don’t mean to be weird.. but do you mind just – hanging out for a while? I just want to take a shower.”

He looks at you.

“I mean – if you want to go, you can totally go!” you blurt out. The words come falling out of you. “I’m not forcing you to stay. It’s fine if you want to go. I was just saying, I wanted to just – take a shower. I’d be back in like – ten minutes-”

“Good grief, please shut up, little mortal,” he groans. You can’t help but bite back a smile at his tone, and you disappear into your bathroom.

* * *

As you shower, you can’t help but wonder with mild amusement what he’s up to in your apartment. An ancient God, wandering your little piece of New York. As the hot water and the smell of your bodywash engulf you, you remember his eyes. How dark they grew when you were in danger. How bright they were when you looked at him.

You towel off, and change into the most oversized t-shirt and soft shorts you can find. Maybe an ancient God of Mischief found comfort in impeccably fitted clothing worn at all times, but at night, you were happiest in warm, baggy clothes that made you feel snug and safe.

You open the bathroom door, and emerge in a little haze of hot water fog back into the cool of your bedroom. He’s lounging on your bed, with a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_in his hands, flipping the pages back and forth. His eyes shoot in your direction, and he puts the book down on your bedside table.

“You look remarkably warm,” he says, and there’s something almost like affection in his voice.

You blush.

He stands, and crosses the room again to meet you. He smells like mint and winter air, fresh, crisp, cold, like snowy mountain peaks, like the mist in autumn dawns.

His hands find the sides of your waist, and he draws you close to him. “And you smell remarkably nice.”

“You always smell remarkably nice,” you say, dreamily. “You smell like.. if the world was a more beautiful place.”

The corners of his lips tug back in a hesitant smile, and his green eyes sparkle as they bore into yours.

“What am I going to do with you, little mortal?’

“You are going to be nice to me,” you answer for him. “And help me with my thesis. And have my back against creepy strange men.”

He laughs this time, snaking one hand up your back and into your hair. He pulls your head back, and you groan quietly, caught off guard. He bends his head, touching his lips against the hollow beneath your ear. “You seem quite certain about it.”

“I am,” you say.

You reach your hands up for his face, running each thumb along either cheekbone. He closes his eyes, his black eyelashes taking the place of the startling green. You run your thumb along his lips, along his eyelashes, you run your hands through his hair.

“What are you doing?” he asks, opening his eyes.

“I want to remember you,” you say, softly. “I want to remember everything about you.”

His eyes darken, and he pulls you against him even closer. You’re pressed against him now, and you wind your arms around his neck to keep your balance. You’ve never wanted anything more than you want him to kiss you.

He kisses your jaw, and trails kisses down the side of your neck. You hold him tighter, your heart racing against your chest. You feel so light, you almost come off the ground.

You try to kiss him now, but he avoids you, with a smirk.

“Ask,” he says, his lips against your throat again.

“Loki,” you protest.

“Ask, little one,” he says, giving you a little bite.

“Please,” you say, breathlessly. “Kiss me. Please.”

He grins, wickedly, placing his hands below your thighs to lift you up against him. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing, and you wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him as close to you as you possibly can. The room is hazy. You only see him.

He moves towards the wall until your back touches it. You're trapped between the wall and him, with nowhere to go in between. He tortures you with kisses up and down your throat, and drags his teeth along your neck, the crook between your neck and your shoulder. You're about to burst. You are taut with longing, and this delicious game has almost ended you before it has even begun.

When his lips touch yours for the first time, it feels like magic. He tastes like something you can’t describe – and at first, he kisses you commandingly but gently, a gentle rain on a summer evening. But something stirs inside you – and undeniably inside him – and the gentle rain turns into a thundering monsoon, and the kiss turns into something deep, possessive, fierce, and beyond anything you believe you had the capacity to feel.

You moan softly into his mouth, and a pressure from his body rises up hard against your stomach.

“I told you about that noise,” he groans, pausing the kiss to press his forehead against yours.

You have never felt this light before. The world isn’t real. Nothing is real except for him. And you. Together. Here. Now.

“You caused it,” you sigh.

“Oh, little one,” he smiles. “If only you knew the things I intend to cause with you.”


	6. Chapter 6

You’re sat on your haunches, looking at him laying languidly across your pillows on your bed. His hair isn’t as neat as usual, and shirt is crumpled from where you’d pulled him close to you when he kissed you, and you have to admit – he looks better than _great._ Your bed is a queen – and still feels slightly small for him. You’ve never seen anyone that tall and that dominating of any space they’re in – and he looks almost comical, flipping through your copy of _Pride and Prejudice _again.

‘Do you want to read it?’ you ask. He looks at you, studying your face.

‘The writing seems interesting,’ he muses. ‘And written by a woman, no less.’

‘Women have written great things,’ you say defensively. ‘I think it’s one of the best books ever written.’

‘I do not doubt you, little one,’ he says, with a wry smile. ‘I may prefer it if you give me a summary of the events, though.’

‘It’s about a pair who fall in love,’ you say. ‘They come from very different places in life. He’s rich, astute, and not very friendly. In fact, he’s very awkward. Because he’s a bit of an ass. Looks down on people who aren’t in his league in life. But then he meets Elizabeth. She’s much poorer, but she’s bright, she’s witty, she’s beautiful. And in spite of himself and all his drab self-righteous classism, he falls in love with her. And in spite of her disgust at him for all his weaknesses, she loves him too.’

He frowns. ‘A good title indeed, for such a tale.’

You smile. ‘I think you’ll enjoy it. The writing is very much like how you speak.’

‘True,’ he responds. ‘I prefer when Midgard spoke like this.’

He places the book down on your bedside table, and in one lithe movement, pulls you down toward him. Your chest is pressed against his, and his eyes have taken yours captive again.

‘As for right now,’ he says, ‘I prefer to spend my time just a little differently.’

You’ve been in awe of him since you’ve met him. He is a fever dream – the most beautiful and intoxicating creature that you have ever seen. But no matter how much or how hard you try to lose yourself in these sparkling moments, you can’t get his threats to the city out of your mind.

‘Loki,’ you begin – and he knows from your tone what comes next. He rises to sit properly against your bedhead, and you tumble ungraciously off of him.

‘Loki,’ you say again, gathering yourself. ‘We have to talk about New York.’

‘What is there to say?’ he asks, and all of the gentleness in his tone has evaporated. His words are as steely as the first time you met him at the MET.

‘You promised you’d think twice about things. You’ve helped me with my thesis. I want you to promise me that you won’t do what you came here to do. Things have changed.’

‘Things have changed?’

He laughs, and it scares you. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been kissing you and holding you in his arms, and you had felt no less than diamonds. But now, fear replaced the butterflies in your stomach, and having a conversation with him sitting on your bed felt very strange indeed.

‘I am the God of Mischief, girl,’ he says coolly. ‘You would do well to believe less of what I say. Don’t be naïve like all before you.’

That stung. You didn’t know why.

‘All.. before me?’

His eyes darken. ‘You are different, but you are foolish to believe you are the first I have played this game with.’

You swing your legs off of the bed, and point to the door.

‘Get out.’

He remains laid back on the pillows. ‘I have no desire to do so,’ he responds. ‘You have brought up a topic, and I have given you my response. What more do you ask from me?’

‘I wanted it to be different,’ you say, and your voice is almost silent. ‘I thought you were more than a liar – more than the shittiest of all your fellow gods.’

This sparks something in him. He sits up, and never breaks eye contact with you once.

‘Careful, little mortal,’ he chides. ‘Don’t say too much now.’

The sting continues. It burns you. Vitriol rises in your throat, and comes out like vomit before you can stop yourself. ‘I’ve read so much about you,’ you continue, a lump rising in your throat. ‘No wonder no one trusts you – no one loves you. You’re cursed to remain a stain in a league of ancient wonders – and you’ll keep getting off on hurting innocent people because that’s all you can ever do – hurt. You’ll never be great. You’ll never be like your brother.’

In one fluid movement, he lunges across the bed, pinning you to it with one hand around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, but the pressure is enough to let you know he’s serious.

‘Do not.. ever.. compare me to my brother again,’ he murmurs. His voice is silky, smooth. And as black as a starless sky. ‘I can make life very bad for you. Do not speak about what you do not understand.’

You don’t look away from him. Your hands scramble with his grip around your throat, clawing and scratching at his wrist.

‘Fuck!’ you scream. ‘Let me go!’

When he does, you gasp for breath again, and struggle off the bed. You’re on your feet, and he’s on his feet too directly in the doorway, blocking your exit from the room.

‘Apologize, mortal,’ he says. His voice is still silky. Smooth. Dark.

‘No,’ you say, your rage still bubbling in your throat. ‘I’m positive you got enough apologies from _the ones before._’

He laughs then, a mirthless laugh. ‘Is that what offends you, little one? More than me not taking back my promise not to lay waste to this damned city?’

You feel so fucked up as he says the words, and even more fucked up as you know the truth they hold. How could you be so sinfully naïve?

You make a dart below his arm, and he catches you. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing and pins you to the wall again – jamming you against it with his body between your legs. You have never felt more anger and fear – but somewhere in the midst of it all – he’s still there.

‘Apologize,’ he snarls again.

‘You apologize!’ you cry out, the tears welling in your eyes again. ‘Just because you’re a stupid _god_ doesn’t mean you get to come here and do as you please and go as you please!’

‘On the contrary,’ he breathes, ‘that is exactly what being a god means.’

You feel dejected. Defeated. But you won’t apologize.

‘I’m not going to apologize,’ you manage to say. ‘I was stupid to think that you could ever be different.’

You resist the urge to fling your arms around his neck and kiss him again. You can’t think of anything you want to do less, and simultaneously more. Something about him has the potential to deeply wreck you, and fighting it is the hardest thing you have ever done.

‘This is who I am,’ he says, softer than before. He moves back, and you are free again. ‘This is who I have been since the churning of the oceans at the dawn of time. I cannot change.’

One of the tears that have pooled in your eyes leaks over, and splashes down your cheek.

You raise a hand to your face to wipe it, and look back up.

He is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE! I just wanted to say thank you so much for the kudos and the comments so far. I have two more chapters written out, but I want to split them up for the purpose of updating more often. This is the end of the shorter chapters - the rest are at least 3k words long thus far. Thank you for reading and I hope everyone has a great 2020! xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS! Welcome to the slightly longer chapters. Thank you SO much for 200 kudos, and thank you for your incredibly inspiring and splendid comments. My love for y'alls bubbles up so strong. Here's a weekend treat. I may post the other chapter on Sunday or mid-week. :)

_It hurts, _you think.

It’s been almost three weeks, and he hasn’t come back. You feel a sense of relief that New York still stands untouched – and at times, you feel selfish for feeling something that almost resembles sadness. You go about your day and try to get a decent amount of work in when you can, but the irony of the one thing you came to New York to do being the one thing that reminds you of what you’re trying to forget is too much.

Three weeks feels like torture. The days blend into each other and on Friday – it becomes too much. You reach for your phone, and dial the number of the one friend you have in the city.

Penny McBride was a girl you’d known since you were fourteen years old. You and Penny had gone to the same high school, and the same university too. You’d studied history, and Penny had studied journalism. Parting ways after that, you’d gone on to do your postgrad studies, and Penny had fulfilled her lifelong dream of moving to New York City, hopeful of snagging a decent job and getting a big break.

She had always been a pretty good friend to you. You’d skipped classes to hang out, spent nights drinking together as part of a larger group, and had a couple of nights listening to each other cry about guys who didn’t matter anymore. You’d been planning to call her up before all of this happened – before –

Weren’t you trying to forget it?

The phone rings twice, then Penny answers. Her voice is bright, cheerful, and a little bemused. You know she doesn’t know this number you’re calling from.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi! Penny. It’s me.’

‘Hi – wait, who is this?’

You bite your lip, and awkwardly say your name.

‘OH!’ Penny’s voice gushes now. ‘Oh my GOD! Hi! I don’t have this number saved, I’m so sorry I didn’t realize! It’s been forever and a day, how are you?’

‘I’m good,’ you reply, cracking a smile. Her bubbliness has always been infectious. ‘I had your number saved from way back when. I just called because I’ve been in New York for a while – studying, really.’

‘You’ve been in New York?! And you’re just calling?’

‘I was really busy, I just got some downtime.’

Penny makes a sound on the line that sounds like the equivalent of rolled eyes. ‘Well at least you got around to it,’ she says.

You close your eyes. ‘Yeah. I would have anyway. Listen – if you’re not doing anything tonight, would you want to hang out? I’m staying near Brooklyn, but I can Uber to meet you if you want. I know it’s Friday and you might be busy – but just to catch up, if you’re free. If not it’s totally fine.’

Penny laughs delightedly. ‘I’m actually going to Rubicon with a couple of my friends tonight. It’s a fancy-ish bar not too far out of Manhattan – it’s great. Will you come, then?’

You feel a strange sense of relief to have made a plan. The pending distraction finally feels tangible, in your mind.

‘Yes. I’d love to.’

‘Okay, see you! Dress cute. New York is really the city of wonder!’

‘Bye, Penny.’

You hang up, and toss the phone away.

_Friday night_, you think. _Friday night, in the city of lights._

* * *

You don’t quite know what Penny meant by ‘dress cute’, but you hope that you managed to nail whatever it is she wanted you to go for. You choose a forest green (_great)_dress with three quarter sleeves and a surprisingly daring plunge neckline, and match it with strappy nude heels. And as you did your makeup to your favourite 80s dance songs, you felt a sense of frivolity and lightness that had been missing in you for a long time.

You really needed this.

* * *

The Uber dropped you off at the entrance of the bar. The combination of the pulsing neon lights and the heavy bass of the pounding music swallowed you before you even entered the building – it could intoxicate anyone, before they’d even had their first drink. The lights dim to almost dark when you enter, and the setting feels foreign. You can’t remember the last time you’d been out for a drink at a place like this.

You text Penny but before you can even look up from your phone, you feel a pair of arms thrown around you, and you hear her high pitched wail of your name.

‘Penny!’ you grin, pleased to see her. ‘How did you even see me?! I can’t even see properly.’

Penny is beautiful. She’s tall, lithe, and graceful, with blonde hair that falls to her shoulders, and sparkling brown eyes. She introduces you to her two friends, Amanda and Ty, and invites you to join them at the bar.

‘She’s _soooooooo_ smart,’ Penny tells her friends, as a bartender approaches your table with four full shot glasses. ‘She did history in university. She’s so much cooler than I am.’

‘Penny’s always been the cool one,’ you correct her. ‘I was just lucky to be along for the ride.’

Amanda hands you one of the shot glasses. You cringe, hoping you won’t regret it.

‘Cheers to old friendships,’ Penny sings, and before you can protest, you put the glass to your lips and the shot burns down your throat.

You continue talking – and drinking – with the trio. It’s fun, and you feel your inhibitions and your stresses of the past month slipping away from you. Penny keeps ordering drinks and shots for the group in what she thinks is good measure – but your tolerance has significantly dwindled since university. They drag you to the heart of the bar to dance - the colours around you are more vibrant than they’ve ever been, the beats of the music feel as though they’re inside of your heart, and the crowd of pulsing bodies seems hazy around you.

‘Hey guys,’ you say, ‘I’m gonna go to the bathroom.’

‘Are you okay?’ the two girls ask, simultaneously. Penny offers to come with you.

‘No – I’m okay,’ you smile. ‘I’ll be back. Just going to do some touch ups.’

You take your time to steady yourself and totter off toward the ladies room. You’re _so_close to the door, when a hand reaches out and grabs your arm. You instinctively raise your next hand to swat it off of you, when you look up and your eyes meet the green that have haunted your dreams for almost a month.

* * *

‘No,’ you mutter, ripping your arm away.

Loki steps in front of you, barring you from the door. His hands grasp both of your arms, and he looks furious.

‘Stop this,’ he says. ‘You are drunk.’

‘What do you care?’ you slur, shoving at him with all your strength. ‘Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of. I finally have one good night, and you show up to ruin it? I’m going to pretend I haven’t seen you.’

‘Stop,’ he says, again. He pulls you away from the door, and you are extraordinarily aware of his burning grip on your waist.

‘How did you know I was here?’ you ask, struggling to keep your composure. The alcohol seems to magnify every emotion you feel, and you hear your words as though you aren’t even in your body.

‘Do not drink any more of that alcohol,’ he says, dangerously. ‘You are drunk. You will regret it.’

‘And what if I do?!’ you almost shout. ‘This is the first time I’ve felt good about anything in such a long time, and this is where you turn up?!’

You feel a couple of eyes in the quieter part of the room turn to your direction – the bickering, quarrelsome couple.

Your stomach starts to feel queasy, and you put your hand against the wall for support. He places a hand on either side of your hips, steadying you.

‘I told you,’ he says – his voice still angry, but not dangerous. ‘Why did you have that much?’

‘I want to go home,’ you say, hoarsely. ‘I came to forget you. Now you’re here. I don’t want to be here.’

‘Tell your friends,’ he says tersely. ‘I am taking you home now.’

‘You’re not taking me _anywhere,’_you groan, holding on to him now.

‘I am, unless you plan to spew vomit and make a scene.’

With his towering figure behind you with one hand on your lower back to guide and steady you, you make your way through the crowd and apologize to Penny and her friends for having to leave. You don’t miss that they can’t take their eyes off of the Norse god behind you, and even in your state, you can barely blame them. You hug Penny and promise to see her again, then he steers you out of the building.

‘How are you wearing the same thing you always wear, and you look more well dressed than me?’ you shout at him, when you get onto the sidewalk. ‘I took two hours to get dressed!’

He rolls his eyes, and without a further word, scoops you up into his arms. A flash of green later, you’re inside your apartment again, and you sink onto your living room couch, burying your head into a pillow.

‘Was that magic?’ you murmur, half in a daze.

He picks you up again, and your head falls against his chest. You feel him walk with you, and then he lays you down gently on your bed, fitting your head flush on your pillow.

You might be a little drunk – but you know more vividly now than ever what your greatest fear in this moment is. You reach up and grab him by the neck of his shirt, pulling him down to you.

‘You can’t even open your eyes properly, little one,’ he says softly. ‘What do you want?’

‘Don’t go,’ you manage.

He doesn’t make you argue. You let go of his collar and you sit up gingerly, pointing at your open wardrobe.

‘Hand me that grey t-shirt. And turn around.’

You manage to get your dress and shoes off, feeling momentarily vulnerable in only your underwear, merely feet away from him. But he is obedient to you just this once – and sits facing the door. You toss on the oversized t-shirt that you sleep in, and convince your half-intoxicated self that you don’t necessarily _need _your sleeping shorts, because this t-shirt already comes halfway down your thighs.

‘Okay, I’m done. I’m comfortable now.’

He turns back to you, with a strange look in his eye.

‘It was an interesting dress,’ he says.

‘You didn’t like it?’

‘I did, quite. The colour, too.’

‘What were you doing there?’ you finally ask.

‘I am a god, little one,’ he says, almost regretfully. ‘I know anything I want, whenever I may want to.’

Boldly, with the alcohol spurring you on, you reach for him again. The night is gentle, and the moonlight streams through your window. He moves forward and in one swift movement, you’re under him, your head as precisely on the pillow as he had put it earlier. Your heart races – you’ve never been like this. Under him like this.

He runs his nose along your jawline – and goosebumps erupt throughout your body. And when he begins pressing kisses along your neck, you raise your legs and wrap them around his waist, anchoring him against you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his tongue traces patterns on your throat, and as he raises his head to bite against your lower lip.

You feel him hardening against you, and the friction has never felt so good. You grind your hips upward to meet him, but he grabs both of your hands in one of his, pinning it above your head. The next hand comes down between you both, raising your t-shirt off of your body, his palm pressing flush against the skin of your stomach. It moves downward, to the exterior of your underwear, and the feel of his fingers against you, separated only by millimetres of fabric, makes you gasp audibly.

He kisses you, and you kiss back, moaning into his mouth as he flexes his fingers against you, pulling his index finger up and down - teasing you, never pulling the fabric aside or finding their way in it. It feels like the most delicious torture, and you want more.

‘Please,’ you breathe.

‘Not tonight,’ he murmurs. ‘Not when you have drink in you. And you want to rest.’

He brings back up his hand, and with the other, releases both of yours. He rolls onto his side, pulling you against him in a little spoon fashion. Curiously, one of his hands go back beneath your shirt, against your stomach, as if the warmth of your skin brings him comfort. Despite your protests that you aren't tired - your eyes feel impossibly heavy, and your lids begin to close almost immediately.

‘Loki?’ you whisper, half asleep.

‘Yes, little one?’ his voice comes from your hair.

‘Don’t destroy New York.’


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG YOUU GUYSSSS. 300+ kudos and a bunch of new followers on my fanfic Tumblr. THANK YOU ALL for your patience and kindness. I've been super busy recently, but I'm really happy to finally be able to settle down and write again. I HOPE YOU ENJOY!

Morning comes lazily through your window, and your room is draped in warm streams of sunlight. You stretch, eyes closed, feeling the lingering burn on your wrists where he’d pinned your arms up above you last night. You half-expect to see him when you finally open your eyes – but he isn’t there. Why would he be?

**

You get a lot of your thesis work done today. Almost as a precaution, you’ve turned on CNN and BBC updates on your phone, given to the silly notion that if Loki were to do anything rash, you would know about it as soon as you could. It’s as funny as it’s silly, and you find yourself laughing at how crazy your life has become.

The gentle morning turns into the dewy evening, and you don’t even notice the moon is high in the sky when you snap your laptop shut. You contemplate taking a walk down the street to get a coffee – but you feel that a warm shower and a movie might be a better way to spend your Saturday evening. You’re still amazed that you don’t feel hungover from last night, given how much you drank – and how many gaps there are in your memory.

Your emerge from your bathroom in a pleasant, scented fog, and gasp as you see him sitting patiently at the end of your bed, leafing through Pride and Prejudice again. He’s wearing his signature black.

“I really must borrow this,” he says thoughtfully, then looks up at you. A mischievous smile tugs at his lips. “I am glad I came at this time. You look so delightfully warm.”

“Close your eyes,” you say, pointing to the wall. “I’m going to put on my pajamas.”

Loki rolls his eyes, and covers them with the book, almost sarcastically. You bite back a grin, hopping into your favourite five-sizes-too-big t-shirt, and twisting your towel through your hair a few times until it’s less damp than before.

“Okay,” you say, tossing your towel on your laundry chair. “I’m dressed in my finest now, Prince of Asgard.”

He puts the book down, and beckons you closer. The glint in his eye is something you’re not sure you’ve seen before, and your heart beats a little faster as you approach him, standing between his knees. He puts his hands on either side of your thighs, pushing your t-shirt further and further up, until he exposes a strip of bare stomach. Your whole body has broken out in goosebumps, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“I love when you’re this warm,” he murmurs, pulling you closer against him. He presses his lips to your stomach, and you wind your fingers in his hair – almost instinctively; a desperate show of keeping your balance as your knees go weak. You sigh when he licks a line across your stomach – it feels so _carnal_.

In a swift movement with his hands still gripping your thighs, he swivels you around and gently pushes you back. You’re beneath him again, just like last night.

“You _begged_me to take you last night,” he whispers, and his voice is more dangerous than it has ever been. He’s between your feet – and the fabric of his clothes rubbing against your bare legs is so erotic, you want to cry. “But you were inebriated.”

“What does the god of mischief care about a little inebriation?” you shoot back, raising your hands to hold on to the back of his neck.

“I usually may not,” he informs you, matter-of-factly. “But I find myself consistently out of sorts when it comes to you.”

He kisses your throat, and you raise your body against him, pressing against him.

“Little human,” he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against your neck. “Are you sure you want this?’

“More than anything,” you say breathlessly, your heart in your throat.

He looks at you – his eyes are a dark mix of greed and fondness, and he finally kisses your lips, kissing you deep.

You roll and tug at each other, his hands in your hair, caressing your face, around your neck, your hands gripping at his shoulders, at his face, your world hazy and green and gold in his kiss. Kissing a god was something you knew no feeling on a mortal plane of existence could replicate, and you melted into him, against him, sighing, reeling, floating.

He’s sat up against your headboard with you straddling him now, holding you around your waist, chuckling as you kiss at his neck and his throat in return. You feel his hardness between your legs, and you involuntarily grind your hips downward – sighing as you do.

‘Mmm,’ he smirks, placing both hands on either side of your hips, and guiding you forward to grind against him again. “I have long imagined you like this, sweetling.”

Spurred on by the power of your arousal, you move backwards and pull him down onto you, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“And I have long imagined you like _this,_” you whisper.

“Restraint is not my prowess,” he warns against your lips, “I do not want to harm you.”

“You could never hurt me,” you murmur back. “I trust you. I want you.”

You whimper as you feel his fingers slide between the band of your underwear and your skin, sliding it down and off of you.

He sits back on his knees, unbuttoning his shirt, one excruciating button by one. You lay back on your pillows and drink him in – this tall, commanding, dangerous, beautiful, haunting Prince of Asgard. Black hair, marble skin. Green eyes scorched almost black with desire. For_you_. How is the world even real?

With your eyes on this impossibly breathtaking god, you almost inadvertently reach one hand down between your legs, and you watch his eyes go completely dark.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispers, grabbing your hand, and tossing it to the side. “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

“Take it off for me,” you tease, playfully stretching your hands upward.

He smiles, and your world glows. He eases your t-shirt off of you, and looks at you with a reverence you’ve never been looked at before.

“You are the most beautiful little thing I have ever seen,” he muses, one large hand exploring your torso, his thumb delaying on each breast. He lays you back on the pillows, kissing your throat, your collarbones, and moving downward. You whimper as his tongue encircles each nipple, shooting lust straight to your core. You cannot believe this night isn’t a dream.

Kisses trail down your stomach, greedy bites at the soft part of your stomach. Finally, he reaches your weeping centre, and throws both of your legs over his shoulders.

You only get to admire the muscles of his back for half a second, before pleasure engulfs you in a wave so obscene that you almost burst on contact. His tongue moves languidly and leisurely against you, and your back arches against the bed, your hands grasping fistfuls of sheets in a desperate attempt anchor you to the world.

You feel the pressure building inside of you, threatening to erupt. It’s so close – you twist your fingers in those delicious black locks –

And then nothing.

He retreats, grinning at you, and you almost tackle him to the ground.

“I was so close!” you almost cry out, when he covers you again, crashing his lips against yours. One hand reaches down and he inserts two fingers into your slick wetness, making you moan against his tongue. 

“Naturally, I will make you come,” he promises into your mouth, his fingers in and out of you in a rhythm so sweet you can’t bear it. “But you will come with me inside of you, little one. I want your legs shaking, and the only name you can remember in this world to be mine.”

You hear shuffling and a thud as he finally throws his pants to the floor. He hoists your legs up, and lays you back, with one chaste kiss against your lips.

“Look at me,” he commands, and you do. You feel him at your entrance, and as he eases himself into you, your eyes almost roll back.

_This is too much_, you think. How can your body handle this much pleasure? How are you not afire in flames of devotion to a lover like Loki of Asgard?

He grunts gutturally as he stretches you out and begins a slow thrusting pace, and you throw your head back, surrendering in the moment.

“Look at me, sweet girl,” he commands again. “How does it feel?”

“Stop – being – cocky – ” you manage between cries of pleasure, grinding your hips up to meet him.

His arms are pressed against the bed on either side of you, and you grip them, willing yourself not to come too quickly. You need this forever.

He speeds up his pace, and you moan after each thrust, feeling him hitting every sweet spot inside of you.

His hands move to grasp yours, holding them above your head, intertwining his fingers with yours. His forehead presses against yours, and you bite your lip as he continues his achingly perfect rhythm inside of you. The pressure builds again.

“Come for me, little one,” he whispers into your ear, his tongue tracing your earlobe.

You shatter.

He shatters.

A scream.

A groan.

Bliss.


End file.
